Sometimes the Dragon Wins

SOMETIMES THE DRAGON WINS

By Krisis

Chapter Three - A Legend in his own lunchtime

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"So, he thinks he's not the Dragon?" Harry looked positively delighted.

"He thinks he's not the Dragon," Hermione affirmed.

Ron snuck a look at Hermione and grinned mischievously.

"I don't know Harry. I still think Malfoy's the Dragon," he said in a deadpan voice.

"Why would you think that?" Harry snapped, sounding upset.

"Well, because he," Ron stared at the ceiling thoughtfully, "Because he's a cold blooded reptile."

Harry brightened. "So you don't think he's the Dragon?"

"Well he says he isn't," Ron said. "So he probably isn't."

Hermione chewed her lip. "Hang on. Why would Malfoy tell us whether he is the Dragon or not?"

"Because you were wearing a short skirt as instructed?" Harry said.

Sometimes he was capable of being a bastard.

"He didn't even like the short skit Harry," she said patiently. "Not all men think with their...other brains."

Ron and Harry exchanged glances and smirked.

"Oh, get off it!" she snapped. "You know what? I don't think he knows whether he is the Dragon or not."

Harry groaned. "Hermione..."

"It wasn't as if he were reading something concrete and helpful. That book he was reading might have claimed that the Dragon could shoot bullets out of his intestines, and Malfoy decided that it couldn't be him then and..."

"But Hermione," Harry interjected again.

"No, Harry. You are the one who wants to get close to the Dragon. I still think Malfoy fits the description better than anyone else does. If we want to go through with this we'll have to do it properly. We will have to figure out whether Malfoy is the Dragon or not, because he isn't going to do it himself."

Ron and Harry stared at her for a few moments.

"Okay, okay," Harry relented. "What do we do?"

"Well, we know the Malfoys are incestuous, that his father bears the dark mark, and that he might have a bit of albino blood, right?"

"Yes," Ron confirmed stoutly.

"It is vaguely possible that he will embrace the good side one day. He's embraced the dark side already, do you agree?" Hermione didn't think that Draco was a Death Eater, but she didn't think that he was the Chairman of the Anti-Voldemort committee either.

"I don't know if it's possible that he'll embrace the good side..." Harry started.

"So that only leaves figuring out his ancestry and tracing it to Godric Gryffindor and figuring out whether he has some kind of mark on his person," Hermione barrelled on triumphantly.

Ron nodded slowly.

"Seeing as that I actually know how to do research, I will look after the ancestry part," she said, trying not to laugh. "And you two will have to find a way to get Malfoy to take his clothes off."

"No way!" Ron yelled immediately.

Harry was thinking. "Hermione," he said in the ingratiating voice he always used when he was being sneaky, "We're boys. Malfoy is not going to take his clothes off for us. You, however..."

She looked at him, trying to figure out what was going on in that complex head of his. Did he really think that she was desperate enough to take off her clothes for Malfoy? Did he have no respect for her. He looked tired, not malicious. He merely wasn't thinking. He was always thinking how to win, how to beat Voldemort, how to keep evil at bay. And he seemed to do it all selflessly. But that didn't mean that he could use her as a pawn for his wondrous deeds.

"Drop it Harry. Flattery is not going to work. Use your brain. Malfoy does take his clothes off on occasions. To undress. To partake in orgies. To shower. You're a prefect Harry. Surely you can wangle a way of seeing him in the prefect bathroom?"

"I don't know," Ron mumbled. "I don't want to look at Malfoy naked."

"Neither do I," Harry said sullenly.

"Well, then you're not going to know if he's the Dragon or not, are you?" she asked briskly.

"Maybe we don't have to get involved in the Dragon-thing anymore," Harry said reluctantly.

"Okay," Hermione agreed, proud that he could quit.

"Whoohooo!" Ron whooped.

"No, I changed my mind," Harry said hurriedly. "We have to get close to the Dragon. I'll do it."

Ron subsided and grumbled under his breath.

"I'll look at Malfoy naked," Harry said. "You don't have to Ron. It's not your battle."

"It's not a battle," Ron pointed out.

'It was,' Hermione realised sadly. 'It was battle to save Harry's heroic soul.'

"I'll get to researching right away then," she said, getting up. "Good luck. Ta."

"We'll see you in a week," Ron cracked.

As she left them looking rather dismal, she couldn't help thinking for a few perverted moments, that Harry really did have the better job.

********************************

"Morning has bro-oken, like the first mo-o-orning!" Draco took an experimental jab at the song with his low tenor voice. He'd heard the song somewhere. It was probably a Muggle-tune; it wasn't in his own extensive musical collection, but it suited the moment. He closed his eyes and reached for the soap. "Blackbird has spo-oken, like the first bird!"

His voice reverberated around the great tiled room as if creating its own applause.

He loved getting up at 6am, surveying the other sleeping sloths in his dormitory for a few superior moments, jogging around the Hogwarts grounds and then taking a refreshing shower in the prefect's bathroom.

He'd seen the strangest thing this morning though. He'd seen the figure of Harry Potter, looking miserable, jogging a few hundred meters behind him.

Draco had decided that Potter's labored breathing irritated him and he'd upped the pace through the edge of the Forbidden Forest, shaking Scarboy off with no apparent effort.

The portrait to the prefect's bathroom swung open suddenly and a sweaty and bedraggled Potter slouched in, breathing heavily.

Draco coolly turned his back and continued showering.

To inflame his annoyance, Wonderboy chose the shower-faucet next to his.

"Of all the shower heads in the world, did you have to pick the one next to mine?" he asked irritably.

Potter didn't reply. Draco glared at him and realised that Potter was in fact examining Draco's magnificently taut body.

"Oh," he said lazily. "So that's how it is. You like boys then. I wondered why you and the Mudblood stopped sucking face."

Potter was blushing, but he didn't look away.

"Honestly, it's indecent the way you go on Potter."

He wasn't, Draco had already realised, staring at him lustfully. Potter was scanning Draco's body, as if looking for something.

"The Death Eaters wear their marks on their wrists. You don't have to examine my torso," Draco said.

And still the little earthworm continued to run his gaze up and down Draco's body.

Draco was at a loss for words. He was starting to feel embarrassed.

Potter looked up to his shoulder suddenly and his eyes stopped roving. He was frowning. Draco glanced towards where he was looking.

Oh. The Dragon-shaped mark.

The reasons behind Potter's absurd behaviour sunk in at last.

"You worm," he snapped.

Harry backed away. "You are the Dragon," he said with a trembling voice.

"Don't cry Potty, I'm not," Draco said snidely. He wasn't.

When the mark had appeared on his shoulder a year ago during an awful MediMagic-exam, he'd been rushed to the infirmary. Madam Pomfrey had almost fainted when she'd seen it. Draco had also been surprised. Why had there suddenly been an enormous red dragon on his shoulder? A Dragon that didn't wash out with soap or water, no matter how hard Madam Pomfrey had scrubbed. Professor Dumbledore, the headmaster, had been called in for some reason, and he'd stared at the birthmark rather irritably.

"This is bad," he'd murmured.

"What does it mean?" Draco had demanded.

"Are you sure you didn't have it tattooed onto you during the holiday?" the headmaster had inquired sternly.

"No I didn't. That's just corny," Draco had replied.

"Well, according to prophecy," Dumbledore had said, looking aggrieved, "That is the mark of the Dragon."

Draco remembered staring at the red welt in confusion. "That's not possible," he had said.

"Indeed." Dumbledore had sighed again. "Do you think you are the Dragon, Mr. Malfoy?"

Draco had snorted. "Never."

"Well, then we'll dismiss it as a freak occurrence. Possibly an invisible poltergeist took it on himself to tattoo your shoulder for a bit of fun, eh?"

Draco didn't think that was what had happened, but it beat thinking about the alternatives.

He had smiled over at Professor Dumbledore. "I think that's exactly what happened," he had said.

Dumbledore blew out a breath of relief. "Good," he had said. "Good."

And now Potter was staring at him with that same horrified look.

"But all the signs point to the fact that you are the Dragon," the other boy, or, Malfoy amended, man, really looked heart-broken.

"I tell you what," he drawled. "You can draw the dragon on your left shoulder, and you can be my father's son if you want, and you can go and die at the hands of Voldemort. I, as the Dragon, give you the license to take over my role. Do whatever you want Potter. I'm going to eat breakfast now."

*********************************

Now that Draco had discovered what Potter was up to, he was certain that his brainier, leggier slave would be researching the Malfoy lineage in the library.

They were too predictable.

For a moment he wondered what the foul, classless, redheaded one was doing.

There was a slight possibility that he was skulking around under Potter's invisibility cloak, waiting to kill Draco. He might possibly be eating lunch as well. Draco was skipping lunch, having chosen not to support the elf-liberation armies' vile mush.

God, they were so nosy. He couldn't believe the shower incident. Couldn't they leave people to their own private lives? He had had many nightmares about that blasted invisibility cloak as well, imagining Weasley somehow getting into Draco's room in that cloak and watching Draco sleep.

He had to stop them interfering. What if they found out that...? He caught himself. Not that there was any way they were going to find out that he was the Dragon, because he was not the Dragon.

The Dragon was a mythical wizarding figure, revered in wizarding folklore and prophecies. Every pureblood wizard had heard about this hero, who was destined to step forward in some time of need and save the world by doing some very nifty magic. The books had never been clear why this saviour of the world would be referred to as the Dragon, and Draco had never particularly cared. And he didn't care if the Mudblood and her little friends were trying to figure out the identity of the Dragon.

But he had to stop them anyway.

He pushed open the library doors.

Damn, he was good. She was sitting on one of the armchairs, talking to Bryce Avery, a 5th year Slytherin.

Avery was interspersing his conversation with frequent glances at her chest which (was it his imagination?) she was puffing out slightly.

Once again she was wearing low-cut clothing she looked uncomfortable in. Avery didn't seem to notice.

"...And I know Draco's ninth descendants were the Vanhorns, and before that it was the Diesels, because Lord William Diesel killed one of my ancestors in battle and the Averys have had a grudge against the Malfoys ever since."

Hermione was scribbling down busily.

"Thank you Bryce!" she exclaimed. "That's just what I needed to know."

"So don't forget about our date," Bryce said, risking one last glance at her chest.

Draco decided that this was the correct moment to appear from behind the bookshelf.

"Stop whatever you're writing right now Granger," he ordered in his laziest drawl.

Bryce Avery looked terrified at the sight of Draco.

Draco decided to ignore him for the moment.

Hermione put her quill down slowly and grinned up at him.

"I am not the bloody Dragon, so please stop pretending to be Nancy Drew and leave my ancestors alone."

"What, something you'd like to hide in your lineage Malfoy? Maybe there were some Mudbloods amongst the Malfoys, eh?"

He rolled his eyes. "Granger, nobody likes a smart ass. Now give me that crap you have been writing and..."

She leered at him. "It will be an absolute pleasure Malfoy. Or should I rather call you the legitimate heir of Godric Gryffindor?"

"Get over it Granger," he said tiredly.

"No Malfoy, you'll have to get over it. In fact, you'll probably need therapy to get over it," she stood up and passed the slate to him. "See Malfoy, Godric Gryffindor's son Thomas had two illegitimate children. Gerald and Hildegard." She looked at him mockingly. "Are you listening? Anyway, Hildegard, who was by the way, a squib, meaning that she was unable to perform magic..."

"I know what a squib means Granger," he growled.

She continued happily. "...Hildegard the squib, who did not know who her father was, married a Muggle, or Mudblood, as you would call it, man called Benjamin Diesel. The Diesels had magical children, and that's where the Diesel wizarding lineage began. With a Mudblood and a squib," she said contemptuously.

Malfoy glared at her.

"I wouldn't have figured it out if Bryce here hadn't told me that your ancestors were the Diesels."

She bowed mockingly.

"Charmed to meet you, my lord Dragon."

****

Lucius Malfoy drummed his fingertips against the large, mahogany dining- room table.

"...And then I will rule the world," Lord Voldemort, who was sitting at the head of the table, proclaimed grandly, taking a last bit of a devilled chicken wing.

"How nice," Narcissa said pleasantly. "Do have another chicken wing."

"Don't mind if I do," Voldemort smacked his lips.

"When are you going to implement the plan?" Lucius heard himself asking.

"Soon."

He knew a dastardly Muggle had orphaned Voldemort, but there was still no excuse for bad table manners.

He shuddered as suckling sounds ensued. The Dark Lord was licking his fingers.

When the torturing sounds had passed he unclasped his knuckles and smiled at his great guest. "You will have to leave the Manor then?" he inquired, trying to sound disappointed.

"It aggrieves me Lucius, but yes."

"Oh what a pity. I implore you to return for another visit soon."

Like, when hell freezes over.

"It has been an honour serving you," Lucius continued smoothly.

His wife, who was quite intelligent and very perceptive, raised her eyebrows quite sceptically.

When Lucius, trembling at the very thought, had offered that Voldemort grace them with his presence by staying at Malfoy Manor for a while he had not anticipated such a long stay.

He hadn't even expected Voldemort to accept, in fact.

But he had. And he'd taken over Lucius' rocking chair, Lucius' seat at the dining room table and Lucius' prerogative of choosing the menu.

Voldemort didn't even eat red meat, and Lucius loved nothing more than a 300g sirloin steak.

He scowled unconsciously.

"I was in fact thinking of staying here," Voldemort was saying.

His heart literally stopped beating.

"But I have to move."

Phew!

"A dark lord's work is never done," Voldemort quipped.

Narcissa tittered dutifully.

And he'd been trying to cultivate a sense of humour! Perish the thought! Lucius deeply distrusted people with a sense of humour. He knew that people who joked about themselves would sooner or later become fat and undisciplined and dare he think it, start breaking out in happy choruses of Boney M's "Ma Baker."

He also suspected that people who had a sense of humour were often quite intelligent.

"Enough about that. What do you think about the plan Lucius? You've never said," Voldemort was peering at him over steepled fingers.

Ah yes. The plan.

Lucius thought it over. He examined every possibly flaw. He mulled it over like a good cabernet sauvignon.

The plan was very well thought out, practically infallible and brilliantly simple. And Voldemort knew it.

A plan like this one was the reason Lucius was still following the old nag. Plans like this one ensured world domination.

"Master," he said, inclining his head slightly, "You will be ruling the world within days if I have anything to say about it."

Voldemort grinned proudly. And without looking even slightly ashamed about it, he started cackling.

Presently Lucius joined in.

****************

Hermione felt quite edgy. She had noticed Vincent Crabbe staring at her at lunch. At first she'd thought he might have been ordered to intimidate her by Draco, and then she'd noticed that his gaze was not an intimidating one.

And that had rather unsettled her stomach.

She had been behaving rather promiscuously the past few weeks, certainly. In fact, she'd been behaving terribly. She couldn't help it though. The fault lines along which her life had been organised had been disturbed by a series of severe tremors. She had told Harry about it, of course, mainly because his life generally seemed to have been riled by earthquakes, but he was much too busy with his little Dragon-charades to be the stable factor in her life. And she didn't want to burden poor Ron with all her troubles. So, she'd let it all hang out, in more than one way. And now Vincent Crabbe was eyeing her as if she were a deliciously plump chocolate frog.

She had realised, suddenly, that the only boys she hadn't snogged from 5th grade up (apart from Ron, of course) were Slytherin's three immortal stooges. Crabbe, Goyle and Draco Malfoy.

Of course, the word stooge was not really applicable to Draco, but it made her feel powerful to think it.

Stooge stooge stooge stooge.

There. She glanced over towards where Draco was supposed to be sitting and smirked.

He wasn't looking at her though.

She sighed.

It was a pity that Malfoy was such an arse, because she wouldn't have minded adding him to her mindless flings. He was one of the better-looking guys at school, if the bad boy thing appealed to you.

Hermione fought hard against it, but unfortunately the bad-boy thing did appeal to her. Perhaps it was because she was trying to get over the antithesis of the bad boy, none other than Monsieur Harry Potter.

At the moment Monsieur Harry Potter was frowning intensely and looking at a piece of parchment. Ron had written it as unofficial secretary to Monsieur Harry Potter.

It said (in Ron's scrawling hand):

1. The Dragon shall be of the blood of Godric Gryffindor AND have the second sight.

Malfoy is Gryffindor's ancestor AND is an albino. So that's right.

2. The Dragon must come from the blood of a marked one. Lucius is very scary Death Eater i.e. is marked.

3. The Dragon shall be one who will learn to embrace both good and bad sides. Not sure about this one. Harry says no, not possible. Herm says yes, possible.

4. He shall be bathed in blood. Assuming this refers to incest: yes.

5. He shall be marked from birth by the dark one. He has a mark the shape of a dragon. Pretty convincing. Harry says I should make a note: "Has it been put there by the Dark One?" Herm says I should make a note: "Harry is picking at stupid little details." Outcome: Herm wins.

Total outcome: Very possible that Malfoy is Dragon."

"Okay, it is very possible that Malfoy is the Dragon," he said.

"It's extremely probable," Hermione corrected.

"So what are we going to do about it?" Harry asked.

He wasn't taking fate's rejection of his heroism well. He looked pale. He wasn't touching his food.

"I vote we do nothing and go and visit Hagrid and enjoy ourselves," Ron said in a spirited voice.

"No," Harry said bleakly. "We have to get Malfoy on our side."

"Why would we want to do that? The Dragon is destined to destroy everyone close to him. I don't want to be on Malfoy's side, even if it is the good side, which will just freak me out anyway."

Hermione grinned at Ron. He looked exasperated. He was too normal to understand the complex, unoiled mechanical clogs in Harry's mind. He had a normal girlfriend, his grades were on the average side and he had a normal, if large family with normal, healthy views on life.

His friends were the only really weird things about him. Harry had issues coming out of his ears and Hermione herself, well, she'd always been different. Ron was going to snap soon.

"How are we going to get close to Malfoy then?" he asked irritably.

Harry's gaze flickered to Hermione.

"Well, I have been thinking of that, actually."

He had their attention for the moment.

"Malfoy will not warm up to anyone of us if we don't give him incentives," he said carefully.

Fair enough. Hermione nodded that he continue.

"The only thing he'll want from me is my quidditch talent," Harry said, "And I can't give that to him."

"I don't know Harry. Malfoy's not bad at quidditch either. He might not want that," Ron said.

Harry's eyes flashed irritably. "The only thing he'll want from you Ron is your, err, sense of humour."

Ron scowled. "You don't have to patronise me Harry. I know I don't have anything Malfoy wants and I'm not necessarily embarrassed by that."

Harry looked apologetic. Hermione waited for it. Harry cleared his throat nervously.

"But you, Herm, you've got brains and you can teach him things and you're good at conversation..."

She let him flounder for a while longer. Dammit, he deserved it.

"You mean I have cleavage, don't you? And I'm a girl. So I'm supposed to seduce Malfoy? Is that what I have to do to make you happy Harry?"

He swallowed. "I'd really appreciate it Herm. I'm sorry."

Hermione thought about it. She was royally screwed up at present. Draco Malfoy was good looking and would be easy to hurt. And Harry needed her to get close to him.

"All right," she said. "When can I start?"

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It was a few hours later.

Hermione nibbled her fingers nervously.

She was standing outside, at the clearing in the grounds where she'd seen Malfoy last. She had a feeling that he would be coming by at midnight again, and she wanted to surprise him.

The problem was how to surprise him.

All the other males she'd had so far had actually been interested in her as well. This was not true in Malfoy's case.

It really wasn't. He had no hidden desire or secret lust for her. She never felt his eyes on her. He never stared at her or lowered his gaze to her cleavage.

She needed him to do that. She would be able to proceed with a seduction routine if he did that.

So she'd put on a really sexy outfit tonight. She was wearing a skintight top with a traffic sign on it. Heeding his advice, she had put on jeans - tight ones that showed every curve of her body, and she was wearing make up. She looked the part. She only had to plan what to say to him.

"Granger, Granger, Granger."

Oh no. He was right behind her.

She turned around nervously, keeping her shoulders straight.

Malfoy looked down, and up again. And then his gaze never left her face.

"Granger, again, what are you doing dressed up like a prostitute in the middle of the night? Trying to earn some money for the Weasley family with your body?"

She had no idea what to say in reply.

"It doesn't suit you Granger," he said. "It really doesn't."

She cringed under his steel-eyed gaze.

"I can wear what I want to Malfoy."

"But it's not what you want to wear Granger. You're a jeans and rugby shirt- kind of girl."

"I'll just go and put it on for you, shall I?" she snapped venomously.

"Oh. Were you waiting for me? I had no idea."

"No I wasn't!" she snapped, too quickly.

"That is a relief," he said smoothly. "Wouldn't want you getting me to admit that I'm the Grim Reaper next, would I?"

"You are the Dragon, Draco," she said irritably.

"No I'm not, Hermione," he said, just as irritably.

"Hey, you called me by my name," she realised.

"You started it," he reasoned. "Who are you waiting for?"

She took a deep breath. Think happy, romantic thoughts. Pink hearts. Twittering birds. Spring blossoms. Fluffy bunny rabbits. And Draco Malfoy.

She snorted.

"What Granger?"

"I've got something in my throat," she said sweetly.

She coughed to prove her point.

"Granger, I haven't got all day. What are you doing here?"

"I was waiting for you, Malfoy," she said evenly.

"What, because I'm the only bloke at school that you haven't throttled with your tongue yet? Or because you want information out of me?"

Hermione cringed. "The first one," she said.

"What?"

"The first thing you said." Her heart was pumping like a hummingbird's wings.

He looked taken aback. He stared at her for a moment.

"Are you drunk?"

She shook her head.

"High?"

Uh uh. More head shaking.

"Mental?"

She frowned.

"And you, perfectly sane, sober Hermione Granger want to snog me?"

She had to get some self-respect back. "Well, you're not that ugly Malfoy. But I'm starting to think that it wasn't such a good idea."

"Oh." He looked at her shrewdly. "Well, in that case Granger, the answer is no. I'll be on my way now."

It was her natural reaction to glare at him as he sauntered past without even looking back.

As soon as he was out of sight she sank to the grass irritably.

Rejection.

He'd rejected her. That hadn't happened to her much the past few weeks.

She supposed she shouldn't be so surprised. He was Draco Malfoy, the meanest guy in the school.

How could he be the Dragon? She was starting to think Harry was right in thinking that Draco could never be the embodiment of good, fighting the embodiment of evil.

A silly part of her wanted to cry.

And then the other, stronger, bossier Hermione Granger took over. 'Get up,' she said. 'And try again. Draco Malfoy is going to pass here again. And he will respect you for not breaking down. He respects strength.'

The other, weaker and more inferior Hermione thought about it. That was certainly true. Draco Malfoy would love to see her crying in a pathetic bundle. But he would admire her if she were standing up, examining her nails and looking as if his rejection had not bothered her at all. Grudgingly, but he would.

So she got up, and waited for Draco Malfoy...again.

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Draco was still in a state of shock.

Hermione Bookworm/Slut Granger had wanted to snog him? What the hell was going on in that girl's mind? She was seriously disturbed. She'd been standing there as if she'd suddenly decided that Draco would fall for her because she was wearing a short top that emphasized everything. No way in hell. She'd been one of his archenemies for six years. Why would she suddenly think that he'd want her?

He scratched his head confusedly.

He had to give her credit. She was certainly full of surprises. This admission had almost shocked him more than her little "You are Gryffindor's Heir"-outburst.

Or her "You are an inbreed and an albino" outburst.

Or... There were dozens of surprising occasions.

And each time she had been the one to surprise, shock or alienate him.

Draco shook his head at the realisation. She'd been the only one with surprises. He had always been utterly predictable and boring. Insult, insult, degrade, insult. That was what he did.

At least she was original. She exposed him as a prophetic hero and declared that she wanted to kiss him and made him so mad that he wanted to kill her.

She tortured him.

He grinned and turned around. It was time for a little payback.

He marched past the lake, past Hagrid's little shack and up the trail that led to Hogwarts.

Good. She was still standing there, her back to him, studying her nails and looking stunningly bored.

He allowed himself to admire the curve of her back, her long legs and her thick hair. She really wasn't bad looking. He wasn't going to regret this "surprise" too much.

He allowed himself one last smirk and then straightened his features into agonised, romantic despair.

He had to let in a little uncharacteristic emotion in his voice so that she would think he was for real.

And he'd have to refer to her by name.

"Hermione!" he called out, attempting to sound love struck.

She turned around and her mouth fell open. He let the fake longing blind his eyes so that she could see it.

"Hermione, I didn't mean what I said," he yelled tearfully, stumbling towards her.

She looked absolutely shocked.

"I want you," he said soulfully. "Will you forgive me?"

She looked suspicious.

All right, perhaps he was overdoing it a little. He'd reached her. She looked at him with raised eyebrows and he put his hands on her shoulders.

"I like your idea," he said softly. "If you don't mind, I would like to kiss you."

She smiled slowly. "Really?"

"Really," he said.

She moved closer to his mouth.

He tried to blindly forget that it was her she was kissing, and tried to imagine it was Pansy.

His arms encircled her waist and he pried her mouth open with his tongue.

She retaliated by softly and playfully darting her tongue in and out of his mouth. He caught it at last and she pressed towards him as the kiss became deeper.

It was not like kissing Pansy. He couldn't keep imagining that at all. It was surprisingly tender and passionate. His movements felt less orchestrated. She was soft and she smelled like a citrus fruit. Her mouth tasted of toffee.

Draco wrenched himself away and forced himself to glare at her.

"In your dreams Granger," he snarled. He whirled away and strode into the castle without looking back.